A Rather Perplexing Turn of Events
by LadyLuly
Summary: Erik finds himself in a mystical land where rings are magic and everyone is attractive! Now, for the sake of eliminating the confusion plaguing his fandom, he must prove once and for all whether he is a good guy or a bad guy, by tipping the scales in the War of the Ring. Utter silliness, but so much fun.
1. A New Problem

**Greetings, Internet users! This is my first shot at a fan fic in a really long time and it's pretty much just me geeking out and then vomiting words, but I love it. If I get even one review for this, I will probably cry sweet tears of Motivation and then update within thirty seconds.**

**It's kind of a short first chapter, but bear with me. If you have any suggestions for this story, let me know! I own nothing.**

Chapter One: A New Problem

Erik was miserable. Thoroughly miserable. _Profoundly_ miserable. Yes, that was it. He was profoundly miserable, he decided, and anybody who thought his sorrow warranted a less poetic description deserved to rot at the bottom of the lake with Erik's lasso around their neck and the word 'Dunce' written on their forehead.

Not that Erik felt at all up to strangling someone. Ever since Christine had left, he had been too sad to do anything but lie in his coffin amidst piles of dirty tea cups and second-rate romance novels. He was so upset, in fact, that when he finally died and everything around him faded into shimmering blackness, all he could bring himself to do was give a little huff and cross his arms. Death was rather boring when you had spent your entire life mimicking it, and he was just debating the idea of striking up a conversation with the twinkles of light floating abstractly around him, when he heard a voice from behind him.

"Erik, old chap! Good to see you!"

He turned with a swirl of his cape to see three elderly men floating toward him on a green cloud that smelled like apple pie. The face of the man on the far left was obscured by a squadron of dark curls and a pillowy beard. After a moment of squinting past the man's round spectacles, Erik recognized him as an older incarnation of a troublesome young reporter who had taken to poking around the opera house after the chandelier incident. This was the man who had called out to Erik a few moments before. The man in the middle was not familiar. His kind face was blanketed by laugh lines and his hair was thin and gray, but at least kept in order. The man on the far right sported a sparkling purple party dress, half-moon spectacles, and a beard so long that it trailed over the side of their cloud and into the distance until it disappeared from view.

The dark haired man beamed and spoke again. "I'm so glad we found you. I'm Gaston Leroux, a writer for the _Epoque_. To my right are J.R.R. Tolkien—a fine and esteemed writer himself—and Albus Dumbledore, who makes an obligatory appearance in all mystical excerpts in which a character makes an important discovery while dead."

Erik's confusion must have shown through his mask because Tolkien declared, "Allow me to explain: we are all dead."

"Deceased," Leroux agreed.

"Living corpses, you might say!" Dumbledore piped up.

Erik wasn't sure if Dumbledore was making fun of Erik's past, but didn't really care to clarify. He yanked the Punjab lasso from his sleeve and threw it a Dumbledore who happily shouted, "_Protego!_" and waved a long stick of wood, causing the rope to dissolve into a swarm of butterflies.

"I had hoped that once I was truly dead, I might have some peace and quiet," the Phantom grumbled.

"Yes, well I'm afraid there has been a bit of a problem," said Leroux, "after that whole letting-Christine-and-Raoul-go-and-making-your-peace-with-Gd episode, nobody can tell if you're a good guy or a bad guy."

Erik did not know what this meant, but he was not about to say so in front of what might have been the only three people crazier than he was. He offered the trio a long and painful death by suffocation in his torture chamber and they burst into a chorus of laughter.

"With that sense of humor you'll have no trouble at all proving yourself as a good guy!" Tolkien exclaimed delightedly.

Leroux nodded, brushing a tear from his eye. "All you have to do to determine it is choose either the good side or the bad side and help them win," he added, "I highly recommend the good side. They usually stand a better chance of winning, and their fangirls are infinitely less frightening. Good Mr. Tolkien has offered to let you be an OC among his charming creations."

"Oh and here, you speak Westron now," said Tolkien. He grasped a twinkle floating near his shoulder and forced it into Erik's forehead. He then gave Erik a pat on the head, which made the Opera Ghost feel both touched and annoyed.

"Have fun!" Dumbledore sang, waving his magic stick again and before Erik had time to wonder if he had finally lost it or what the hell an OC was, he was falling through the darkness, hoping his next destination would make more sense.


	2. Curiouser and Curiouser

**The absurdity continues... I might be taking some liberties with LOTR because I meant to write this as I re-read them, but then this terrible thing called Assigned Summer Reading happened. It's been a long time since I read those books, so I might not always be spot-on with the Tolkien facts and what not. But I'm going to make up for that with a really great disclaimer: Lady Luly, despite her fondest wishes, owns absolutely nothing pertaining to Lord of the Rings or Phantom of the Opera, except for some books, DVDs, pez dispensers and a plushie doll that she cuddles when she is sad.**

Chapter Two: Curiouser and Curiouser

The next thing Erik knew, he was waking up in a delightful forest clearing with sunbeams filtering through the branches and the occasional flower sprinkled amidst the tall grass. It was enchanting, and Erik disliked this. He got up, brushed any signs of cheerfulness from his suit and cloak, and looked around him. The trees at the end of the clearing looked sufficiently dark and scary, so he decided to trample through them, in whichever direction looked the least happy, and went on his way.

Well, he was nowhere near Paris, that was for sure. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, perhaps he was somewhere with no human population. Erik's excitement mounted as he pictured living the rest of his life (or death, as it was) in a world occupied by only himself and assorted cuddly forest creatures, with no mirrors or creatures with vision acute enough to think he was ugly. He was just beginning to feel almost maybe possibly a little bit close to half-way optimistic (his happiest mindset, aside from maniacal glee), when he came upon a path. His shoulders slumped. So much for no human habitation. For a few moments, he considered going back into the forest to live as a hermit, but presently shook his head, chose a direction to follow the path via eeny-meeny-miny-mo, and began to walk. Just as he realized that he had been trudging so long, he was losing feeling in his feet, an enormous black horse galloped past him, nearly knocking him down.

Erik's first thought was that people certainly weren't any more polite here than they were in Paris. But then he noticed that the horse's rider was wearing a long black cloak that covered almost all of him, his face was covered, and he had a lovely air of menace about him. Maybe Erik had found a friend after all. Suddenly, another black-cloaked rider veered off a branch in the path and galloped alongside the first one. The two of them rode terrifyingly off into the distance.

It must be some sort of club. Erik wanted to be in this club. Without a second thought, he took off after them.

He pulled up short when his new best friends came across a midget riding a white horse and started chasing it. Things got even more bewildering when the midget rode into a river, his pursuers followed him, and a stampede of horses made out of water came and washed them all away (sans the midget).

The Phantom rubbed his eyes. He often deprived himself of food for weeks on end and hallucinations such as this one were often the result. He was sad because if this wasn't real, it meant he didn't get to join the Scary Best Friends Club, but he felt a bit better, at least, now that he knew what was going on. He would go to sleep, wake up in his own coffin and eat something before things got any weirder. With this decision made, he curled up in the grass and closed his eyes.

He didn't get the chance to drift off however, before something started poking him persistently in the ribs. He opened his eyes. It was one of those pesky hallucination midgets jabbing him softly with a rather stubby little sword.

"Is it another Wraith, strider?" the hallucination midget asked a tall stubbly man, the only one of the group approaching normal height. The hallucination midget from the river, Erik noticed, was slumped unconscious over his horse, which was being led around by the stubbly man, two additional hallucination midgets on his heels.

Strider looked rather perplexed as he examined Erik, who instinctively scowled at him. "No," Strider concluded uncertainly, "I don't think so. His clothes are not familiar to my eyes."

"I told you so," said another one of the midgets to the one who had done the poking. "His clothes are too outlandish.'

Erik was a little indignant that this gaggle of tunic-wearing midgets was calling him outlandish, but before he could make any scathing remarks, a thought struck him. "Are you… the good guys?" he ventured.

The tall man just blinked, apparently unsure what to say, but a couple of the midgets nodded encouragingly. If these were the good guys, then the Scary Best Friend Club had been the bad guys.

Well, that decided it. Erik was going to join his new best friends in being a bad guy. But then again… another thought stuck him (this seemed to be happening a lot lately). He scrutinized each of the faces staring back at him. Strider had a sort of ragged handsomeness and all of the midgets had nice little faces as well. These were the good guys. All the good guys were attractive. The three nutjobs from the cloud in Erik's dream had said that it was undecided if he was a good guy or a bad guy, so if Erik decided to be a good guy then he would be attractive too and everyone would love him, despite his fondness for killing people. Simple logic.

Erik stood up and gave a little bow. "I am the Opera Ghost," he announced, "but you can call me Erik or even O.G. I would like to join your club."

**Fun fact: I also do not own the chapter title, which is a quote from Alice in Wonderland. And I know that given Erik's time period, he probably would have called the hobbits dwarves, but I figured that would be confusing, for Middle Earth-y type reasons. And hell, it's fan fiction. No one cares about historical accuracy!**


End file.
